


Amortentia.

by delibell



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gryffindor, Hogwarts, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slytherin, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie. [In her beauty rests (both) my death and my life]Tom Marvolo Riddle never fancied anyone - to be fair, he did not think he could. Though, an encounter on his first train to Hogwarts had left a deep impression that he very much could love someone, though if that someone could love him with all of his secrets was a different question, one that he was eager to find out yet was awfully cautious of. You always intrigued him. From the very first day the two of you met, to the very last...





	1. Gloomy days follow.

 

 

  

_A light breeze caressed the back of your neck as your fingers dug into the hard red cushion of the seat; your form leaned forward to stare at the blurring scenery behind the window. Outside the compartment children were eagerly chatting, some singing muggle songs and noisily poking in their heads to see who was doing what. The far away rooftops moved like passengers and in the swaying autumn flowers, the last notes of summer were already fading, you saw the delicate arch of your mothers hand as she waved you goodbye. The memory was still fresh and very much conflicted, both sparking fear and excitement in your heart. Finally, London houses blew by and nothing by plains of green greeted the window. You pulled away and shifted, hitting the back of the seat and feeling the whole train pleasantly rubble down your spine. Besides you, there were three more eleven year olds seated – two in front and one by your left. The lonesome boy by your side was reserved, only briefly glancing around and outlining the forms of the two seated in his close view._

_He set you off, somehow, spiked what you now would name uncertainty, restlessness, but then, in 1938, those complex feelings boiled down into one much clearer emotion – fear. And so you kept your distance, not too close, yet not too far. Mother always said that manners were most important and distancing yourself completely would surely displease her._

_Suddenly, the two boys in front jumped up, sprinting to the compartments door and sticking their noses up to the glass, “No way!” one awed. Whispers riddled the wagon and you tilted your head upwards in a curious manner to see what all this commotion was about. Quickly though your questions were answered, “It’s Scamander!”_

_“You mean THE Scamander?” The other hissed, “But...What about New York?!”_

_You lost interest quicker than a chocolate frog leaped to freedom, and glancing down you continued to sit in silence._

_“…Scamander?” The voice was low rasp and unfamiliar. You blinked owlishly, turning to your side and taken aback for a moment you blindly stared at the once quiet boy that sat beside you. It was his first words ever said in your presence. Now that you got a closer look at him, you realized why he put you off – his was pale, as if sunlight was one thing he did not fancy and preferred to sit inside all day; you trailed the outline of his clothing, catching a few loose seams and harsh fabric around the shoulders – they were not new, you realized, invartedly glancing down at your long polished skirt; his tar black hair laid in strands and was neatly styled and parted in the middle, but what captured you were his eyes, those evergreen glimmering irises that seemed the only thing remotely alive in him. You recalled a story with moving pictures you once read, it showing the very depths of the mysterious ocean where no living soul dared to venture. Again, you found yourself uneasy and when those eyes connected with your own you promptly looked away._

_The question, albeit receiving no answer from you, was met with a light scoff from one of the two standing boys. “Scamander. The child of the most talented wizards in the world?” There was certain bitterness as the boy spoke and a certain glint in his eye that did not indicate empathy, “You mean to tell me you have never heard of them?”_

_“Do you like under a rock, or somethin’?” The other bugged in. You swallowed thickly to keep your mouth shut. The taunts continued._

_“Leave him alone.” You finally snapped, your cheeks flaring red once all eyes landed on you, “What is it to you if he knows of the name or not? Go pick on someone else if you are so eager.” A pause, “Well? Go!” Perhaps it was your harsh tone that prompted them into action, perhaps there was another reason, but with one last frown the two slid the compartments door open and left without any words exchanged. The door clicked shut. Silence engulfed the two of you again._

_“…Thank you.” Despite the genuine tone of his voice there was a note that seemed off, though how or why you could not tell. Instead you smiled shyly and bobbed your head._

_“ Do not mind them…they fancy causing a ruckus, I can tell… I am (Name) (Lastname), by the way.” You introduced, “…Pleasure.” You extended your hand for him to shake. For a moment all he could do was examine your small hand, as if contemplating should he touch it or not. Lastly, he hooked his fingers around yours._

_“Tom. Tom Riddle.”_

**1943**

Rain poured. The windows were tinted dark with black clouds. The small room was drowning in hot fumes that stroke heat to your cheeks, and accompanied by the whiff of coffee and an occasional rosy flash of colour it almost appeared the classroom was going vertigo. Light drumming of cold rain reached your ears, but what melody it was singing you could not tell – no one could bear to keep their mouth shut in Divination.

A hard nudge on your shoulder and your head slipped from your hand, lazily you threw a glance at your best friend sitting beside you with a bright grin gracing her lips, “Did you see?” She most likely repeated the question, you could not recall her ever asking but she most definitely did, and wordless you swept the classroom to find what she was referring to. Seeing you at a loss, Katherine leaned in, crossing her arms over the small table, “ _Over there, by the fire_ …” directly across from you on the other side of the class sat a few more tables and each was full. By the big fireplace sat the Slytherin house, their crystal balls emitting a bleak pink light. A few more closed cards and books were cluttering what little space was left. Your eyes hopped through familiar faces until you stopped, recognising one in particular.

“… _Tom_?” You questioned, turning to her. “Tom Riddle?”

Kat nodded, her dark brown curls bouncing around her sun kissed face. She bit her lower lip and whispered, “He was looking at you again. In that wistful way he does… _Oh_ , you are so lucky, (Name)!”

“He was _not_.” You told, turning to face him. The pale light from the crystal shone on his face and it appeared ever more ghostly; peering closely you caught a note of a smile on his lips, though he reserved from chatting. You faltered. “He has no reason to. We only met once and a long time ago...” You added. You could feel Katherine roll her eyes, and with a curt sigh the shorter girl leaned out and crossed her legs behind the table, softly hitting you in the process.

“Would you _please_ , for once, daydream a little?” despite the bite in her voice you knew she jested. Her face turned soft, along with her tone, “If only he spared such longing glances at me, _oh_ …! Is he not dreamy? _Please_ , at least admit to as much!” Not once did you take your eyes off him. To be fair, once he caught ones attention it was hard to pull away. Tom laughed.

“Dreamy? Yes, _but_ …” You murmured, “Can you not feel it?”

“Feel what? My heart about to burst when he is near?”

You cracked a smile, “ _No_ , not that…It is _just_ … _something_ about him…something different.” You glanced at her, “Would you not agree?” Katherine’s expression turned thoughtful and after a brief pause she nodded.

“Oh yes, _completely_ different...” She fell back into her dream like state, “He _is_ most perfect, isn’t he? _Tom_ …Tom Riddle…Kat _Riddle_? How does it sound, (Name)?”

“Like you belong in a loony bin, now please, before someone overhears us…” And perhaps someone did, for when you sneaked a glance in his direction he was already looking. Tom Riddle was grinning, still focused on whatever Cornelio Chavarone was telling, his joy fixed in time, no doubt after a funny joke one of his close friends has said. Now you were positive he was looking – your eyes connected, the only thing truly clear through the curtain of fumes being his magnificent green irises that halted all thoughts you had prior. You offered him a shy smile before pulling away.

“A debby downer, you are.” Katherine mumbled, missing this small exchange and returning to ogle at the depths of her tea cup, “Just you wait, though.” She raised a challenging brow, “I will have him confessing his love to me in no time.”

“Are you _sure_ it is not the other way around?” You asked playfully.

“ _Oh_ , sod off!”

 


	2. The Prince in shinning armor.

A hiss of pain and a meek yelp. A thud. The grass beneath your fingers bites the inside of your sensitive palm and with great struggle you manage to pull yourself off the ground yet quickly falter with another gritted teeth cry. The rest of the class is set ablaze with murmurs and slowly lets themselves down from their brooms, though are not quick to approach you. A yell of your name starts things into motion; Katherine leaps from her hoovering broomstick and bolts across the yard, successfully jumping over your own laying broom just a few meters away from you and dropping to her knees where you have fallen. Pain shoots up like venom, burning everything at its wake and springing tears in those bright (colour) eyes. _My ankle_ , you realize, _my ankle_! your mind repeats almost frantic yet you are cautious to examine the damage.

“(Name), for Heaven’s sake are you—“ Her voice hitches and her hands pull away from your shoulders, coming to cover her glossy lips, “ _Merlin’s beard_!...” She gasps. Her gaze is fixated on the arch of your foot. You are now positive it did not look pretty. The playful colours of the morning sun, along with some lingering black smoke still spiralling upwards from the torches, on the heavy walls of your school are lost as students with bright red and green capes circle around you, all running their mouths at once and making it impossible to understand who was saying what. Swallowing a hard lump of saliva you dare to turn your head back and finally face the problem.

The pain seems to double as you do, your complexion turning sickish pale as releasing a staggering breath you cannot look away. The doll like black shoe is neat, perhaps adored by a few strands of ripped grass, but it has not fallen off. Only the white sock with frails on its end starts to slowly bloom red from the crooked bone that was clearly not in place. Your fingers dig into the ground and lining your lips thin you refrain from releasing anymore squeaks – was it to save your pride or for what, but you felt oddly embarrassed as everyone ogled you, albeit with concern, yet still ogled. The teacher, only now making his appearance, clears his way through the curtain of your classmates and seniors only to shake his head softly and pry Katherine away from your body.

“Miss Delacroix, if you may, inform the nurse that another student has been injured.” His voice betrays polite sadness. Whether he truly cares or not was all up to interpretation. Katherine upon hearing such a request merely shakes her head in protest – her mouth opens to croak a not-so-friendly reply but someone beats her to it.

“I can take her, Professor. That way you will not have to stop the lesson.”

The air stills as if everyone has a sudden fear of oxygen and listens closely. Even you tilt your head, it spinning lightly as heat strikes your forehead and the inside of your stomach churns. The girls – of course it would be them, your mind comments in a cynical tone – swing into action first with an array of murmurs and coy smiles, accompanied by a few giggles and hush-hush manners. You find him standing by your professor - Tom Riddle - the one who spoke no doubt, looking concerned but in a sort of hidden way as if he fears to appear too interested in this ordeal. The professor’s eyes light up and clasping his hands together he smiles, “ _Oh_ , Tom, my boy, a true gentleman you are! If it’s no trouble that is…”

“Of course not, Professor.” His manners are polished down to a sweet smile that was too sweet to be real. Setting his broom down neatly he takes off his gloves before making his way to you. You gulp. No one was really surprised by such an act of chivalry, after all he was the model student and to expect any less of him was silly.

Tom offers you a smile, asking if he could pick you up. Not seeing much of another option you give a curt nod. Your eyes briefly wander to Katherine, who is still sat beside wide-eyed as if star stuck. Your heart leaps as his arms snake around you and pull you up; you jump in his grasp as he finds the most comfortable position to carry you in, that being bridal-style. Your ankle hisses with pain and your hand shoots to his shoulder, grabbing it almost desperately in fear of falling off or to ease the burning sensation on the lower end of your leg.

“Pardon…” Tom murmurs. You offer a crooked smile. He starts walking.

“It is fine, I am sorry for the…inconvenience.”

“Nonsense, I am glad to help.”

He carries you with ease as if you were no lighter than a feather. The soft jump in his step causes minimal pain and you try your best not to show it. It feels odd being carried, by Tom Riddle nonetheless. As the Quidditch fields are lost behind his back, you had been gazing over his shoulder until the door slammed shut behind, a pleasant silence settles. The castle is quiet. Classes are not to end for another fifteen minutes and not a soul is wandering the hallways he takes you through. Finally you relax in his grasp; it almost feels comfortable, though the strange beating of your heart and a hot fry of your cheeks indicate that something is still off. You blame it on the pain which pulsates venomously. When you are done looking back, which was most of your ride to the Hospital Wing, you glance at him and find him already staring. A questioning look forms on your face that resembling a dear caught in the headlights and Tom wets his lower lip to speak, still intently gazing into your eyes.

“Sorry, _I_ …” He seems to rethink his words, “I know this may seem odd, but…Have we ever met before?” The question takes you aback and you blink stupidly. The posh tone is lost and he refers to you in a much friendlier manner.

“ _Oh_ , well…I believe we have.” You say, “On the first train to Hogwarts. Though…We have not spoken much after.”

“I knew I’ve seen your face somewhere before…” His smile widens, “Then I don’t need an introduction…?”

“Only if I don’t, as well.”

“That you needn’t, (Name).” You emit a happy smile as he said your name, one so contagious that he grins as well. Though as soon as his gaze travels down your leg his smile wilts.

“Does it hurt?” He asks. You shake your head, despite the obvious.

“Not now, no.” You admit. White lies have no shame. “I just…I guess I’m still a bit… _shocked_ from what had happened…”

“And what did?”

“I cannot explain it, my broom was just…” You trail off. Your brows burrow together in concentration, “ _I don’t know_ …It was like it was hexed or ...” You look at him – those green eyes pour with curiosity yet still appear strangely cold. Or perhaps it was just the lighting. Most definitely the lighting.

“ _Hexed_ …? Do you have any enemies, per chance?” You shake your head at the question. “Then you simply aren’t as good with a broom as you imagined.”

“I am _definitely_ no ace,” You agree, “ _but_ …I am not _that_ awful, believe me.”

“Then, perhaps when you’re better, you can show me?”

You have no chance to reply and even if you did you were positive it would have come out meek and frail and incoherent. The doors to the Hospital Wing open with a loud creak and stop the both of you. The angry Head nurse falls into view mumbling something under her breath about ‘ _Safety measures’_ and such. Your conversation ends when she glares at Tom, “ _Well_? What are you standing around for? Get her in, quickly now!”

~*~

An hour later and you are good as new. Your ankle still itches from time to time and by late afternoon bending down to scratch it became annoying. After lunch, in which you religiously avoided anyone who dared to approach you about this whole Tom Riddle carrying you to the infirmary fiasco, you find yourself in the library with some heavy tombs pressed to your chest, Katherine following after you like a lost puppy.

Your heels click and your back arches gracefully, stressing your muscles you stand on your tippy-toes and grasp the edge of the hard book, feeling your arm strain as it reaches higher to put it on the top of the shelf. Just as you thought you would let the book slip it is seamlessly lifted by magic and put into place. You continue returning borrowed books for a while before Katherine reaches the breaking point.

“( _Name_ ).” She calls sternly. You merely hum, “Are you even listening?”

“ _What_? _Oh_ yes, yes I am.”

Silence. “ _Well_?”

The last book is lifted and it shoots to the top shelf. Your eyes follow after it before it gets lost in the sea of covers. Tilting your head to her, you ask, “Well _what_?”

She looks around for pesky listeners – sneaky, at that – before taking a few steps forward and taking your hands into hers, “You and Tom…Did he kiss you?”

“ _What_?!” You exclaim, earning some disapproving hisses from nearby students. “Katherine, where did you hear this nonsense?!” You whisper harshly.

“Nonsense…? _Nonsense_?! Oh, _please_! It’s what all teens are up to these days! I saw it in a muggle movie, you should see the things th—“

“We did _no_ such thing.” You grumble, yanking your hands out her grasps, “ _Don’t_ even say such things. If people were to here you, you have no idea what rumours they’d spread.”

“But you must admit it is believable!” She protests and it is by now you stop taking her seriously. With a tired roll of your eyes you spin on your black heel and show her your back – a motion she does not take kindly to – and taking a big step forward you try to leave her in the maze of books the two of you entered together. Her frantic steps echo behind you and soon she catches up, cheeks spotted red – your pace had always been quick. “It was just a joke, (Name).” She informs. You know her well enough by now to realize it was not, it was simply her way of finding out information that is hard to obtain. You refrain from speaking, “Oh, ( _Name_ )…Don’t be so sour. I was just curious. Of course I know you would _never_ do such a shameless thing.” Her voice grows to a murmur as the two of you pass a table with seated students, all engrossed in their studies but one cannot be too certain. You give a curt nod at the librarian, who merely shows you a polite smile before returning to her paperwork and hop down the steps. “( _Name_ )!” Katherine’s shoulder slump and she stops by the stairs. You halt. “I am sorry. It was foolish of me to tease you in open daylight.”

You backtrack, finally turning to her. Your expression is hard and wounded, eyes blazing with anger yet you tame it by clenching your first, "If such rumours were to reach my mother, Katherine, have you _any_ idea what she would do to me…?” Your voice cracks as you see her apologetic expression; clearly she is sorry and is trying her best to show it. Your throat is dry and you gulp. The soft skin of your ankle hiding behind a new white sock itches. “No matter now…Just, please, never again with such jokes. At least not in front of everyone…Pudding?” You end with a hopeful tilt in your voice, one that springs her into a happy grin and she slides down the stone steps nearly toppling over.

“I thought you would never ask!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello to everyone! thank you for the kudos and the comments. you guys are wonderful <3  
> i'm actually planning on writing a fic for the Marauders next, so be patient. i'm currently sort of obsessed with tom riddle. that is to say i don't think this story will be THAT long (shorter than peculiar i think), so...yah  
>  leave some love if you enjoyed! bye bye!


	3. Good intentions.

[(music)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=al21Vtlsg4A)

 

“I’m fine, I’m...fine.” You insist and Katherine momentarily stops gushing over you, prying her warm fingers away from your cool cheeks as she stands barely a few feet away and obviously worried. You squeeze out a smile; one which only purpose is to ease the tension rather than to show actual joy. Your palm skews with blood and a boiling pain shoots through your nose and head, the later leaking with said liquid that ran down your wrist and sneakily slid down your arm and into your dress shirt. A dizzy spell. You blink, clearing your vision of dancing stars.

“Are you sure…?” She questions quietly, her fingers grasping the edges of your shoulders and lightly turning you to face the wall as a happy bunch of students walk past the two of you in the corridor. Their voices continue to echo for a couple more seconds before they turn a corner and disappear. Katherine swallows another worried comment as you glare at her, shushed she does not dare to voice her concern any more. Instead she releases a dry chuckle, “You are least lucky person I know.” You smile faintly and press harder. Katherine’s gaze travels up and down your arm. Her brows knit and her lower lip trembles. The sight of blood is unsettling to her. “Should I walk you to the infirmary?”

You shake your head, “No, no need. I will” as you take your first step you wobble and the hallway bounces out of focus. Katherine jerks to your aid, “--…perhaps I do…need a bit of help.”

“Honestly, (Name).” Searching for a napkin or anything of that sort in her pockets, and coming up empty, says Katherine, “It’s only the start of the year and you have already broken a bone. Now this…”

“What can I say…Lady Luck hates me.” Your left eye shuts in pain, “—And I don’t fancy her either.”

|||

The stench of medicine and chemicals is clogged by the stench of blood. It rolls down your chin, dripping on your white shirt and dropping onto the hem of your long skirt. You swing your legs from the bedside, patiently and in silence waiting for the Head nurse to come back with your healing potion. She had mumbled something about more than a few nosebleeds happening this time of year – mostly due to the weather. The back of your palm is sticky, the one pressing so tightly to your nose. Behind your fingernails you faintly see traces of red. You gulp. The taste of iron makes a shiver roll down your spine. Silence. Your bed is first from the left and bored you scan the visible area – a couple of bed’s down there is placed a white sheet that blocks your vision. Someone sleeps soundly; you can hear them breathing slowly. Behind the window the sun shines and dances on the marble floor, on the white sheets and on your dolly black shoes and the corner of your white socks.

The door to the Hospital Wing opens and the hinges groan as if not oiled in years. You tilt your head to the side, blinking owlishly when your eyes meet with magnificent green ones. Your hand loosens on your nose – it had started to hurt from pressing so tightly – and the mysterious boy has a perfect view of the bloody sight. The tip of your nose is puffy, there are a few specs of dried red on your cheeks and streaks of it running down your cupids bow. Quickly, as if snapped from a trance, you cover your nose again. Your legs stop swinging and you straighten your back, offer him a smile and lower your gaze, “…Hi.”

“Hi.” Tom Riddle’s voice echoes louder than yours, though it sounds just as soft. You hear him shuffle to you – though his footsteps are quiet, the strange swish of his cloak makes is what catches your attention. When you do finally look up to see him you can’t help the jump your heart makes – the morning sun, so bright and irritating, lets now seemingly gentle beams of light dance in his hair, glimmer in his eyes, dye his pale skin with colour. He seems livelier than on gloomy days, you conduct, a smile pinching the corners of your cheeks. You note the batch of papers in his grasp and raise a brow, “Oh,” He notices your curiosity, “professor Slughorn asked me to deliver these to the Head nurse. Something about new healing recipes…” He answers, though dismissively as if it deserves no attention. His gaze fixes on the red dots adoring the surface of your hand, “What…happened to you?” He asks in interest. You shrug.

“Nothing broken, if you are wondering.” You say, “Just a nosebleed. Happens to the best of us.”

“Do you visit the infirmary often?” He raises an amused brow.

“Best get used to it, I suppose.” You admit, “Only two weeks and I am here…for the second time. I am no stranger to it, though. Broke my wrist in third year, shattered it again the year after that.”

He grins, “How haven’t you lost your head yet?”

You shrug again with a small smile, “As you can see I am clearly trying.”

Pleasant silence follows after that. Your feet gently tatter in the air, ready to swing as you grow comfortable again. Tom stands gazing to the side, possibly at the same white sheet blocking further vision. The air is light and fresh and feels nice on your skin. You feel your nosebleed run dry. The dull headache from before slowly fades and before you know it you remove your hand from your nose and take a cautious inhale. Though it burns a bit, you don’t sense any more danger. You glance up at him and blush – he is already staring _. For how long_? You wonder, though don’t ask.

“I don’t suppose you have a handkerchief I could use?”

He shakes his head, “Sorry. But I could give you one of these papers…” He trails off. You chuckle. The both of you turn to the sudden source of the noise – footsteps coming from the back door to the nurse’s office. You share a look. “I do think your potion is coming.”

“Better late than never.”

 Just as you were about to hop onto your feet his hand on your shoulder stops you and you blink. He stands close, much closer than he did before and it makes you light-headed again. “Don’t…” He says, “Don’t move yet. Rest up.” His touch, though through layers of fabric, leaves a pleasant tingle. You nod dumbly. He falters, “Actually I…I’ve been meaning to ask you—“ The door to the nurse’s office opens and you see her stalk forward with a frown and a small bottle of clear liquid in her grasp.

“No visitors allowed.” She says strictly. The worried though still playful attitude Tom had a heartbeat prior dissipates in front of your eyes. You blink. He grins cheerily and takes a confident step to the Head nurse.

“Not visiting, Miss.” A careful choice of words on his part – the nurse is certainly not a Miss for many years now. “I came here to deliver some recipes from professor Slughorn. He thought they’d be to your liking.”

Though he tough exterior does not fall you catch a note of softness in her eyes as she fights to control a smile, “Place them on my desk and get out.” She says. Tom nods. He sends you one last look – one that is strangely beautiful, with sunlight dancing in the green forest of his iris, though hollow. You frown softly, but before you can get a better look he turns and walks away. The Head nurse blocks your vision, calling for you attention and you hum. “Looks like it stopped…well, no matter. Drink up.”

|||

_“Actually I…I’ve been meaning to ask you—“_

It’s raining. Dully you stare out the window. The quill in your grasp doesn’t move, nor does it create any sound unlike those next to you – through the corner of your eye you see your friend’s wrists gliding down the parchment. Homework is the last thing on your mind however, as all you can think about are his words. How uncertain they felt and sounded. How rushed and unthoughtful. As if it was a spur of the moment thing – a thing that caught him just as off guard as it had caught you. You never imagined Tom Riddle in that sort of way. He seemed to always be smooth and prepared for anything. Perhaps this is the reason you find yourself so immersed in that one sentence. Or…perhaps it is the way your heart beats, in such unruly joy, when you think of it.

You tried to study. It was not raining when you did. You scribbled your name on the top of the page in neat drawn out characters with a swirl on each end and came up with a compelling title, but the rest you drew blank. The gentle knocking of raindrops was what fixed you in a trance and you couldn’t break out of it since.

Noting your lack of engagement, another girl friend of yours, Presley, elbows you harshly and you jerk, “Earth to (Name)!” She hisses. You blink. Katherine shifts her gaze from her paper, stops and with a concerned glint eyes the girl next to her, “The library was your idea.” She grumbles, “So get to work.”

“What? Oh, right…” You nod.

“Hey,” Katherine pipes up, “are you really okay? If you’re feeling light-headed again we can come back tomorrow—“

“Katherine.” You cut her off. It sounded colder than intended so you squeeze a smile, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just…distracted, that’s all.”

“Any particular reason?” Presley asks offhanded as she dips the tip of her quill into velvety black ink. 

_“Actually I…I’ve been meaning to ask you—“_

His words again ring in your ear and you have trouble controlling your breath. A light redness heats your cheeks and you quickly shake your head, “No. No. It’s nothing.” You pull your parchment closer, letting the loose strands of your hair hide your face, “Back to work. We’ll have the weekend free if we finish this.”

“(Name)?”

You barely manage to write the first letter of the sentence when someone calls you from behind. The voice makes your breath hitch. Your friends curiously turn their heads to the side, their eyes falling wide. You spin in your chair to face him, “Tom.” His name slips out unconsciously as a sort of greeting. He grins. Standing in the shadowy corners of bookshelves he finally steps into the light, but as if only now noticing the dreamy smiles of your girl friends he falters.

“May I…talk to you?” Again, that uncertainty makes your heart leap and you nod, stand up. Your girls giggle. You send a glare their way before joining him in the ‘ _Mystery’_ section of the Library. The rain hits harsher. The candles flicker on and create a welcoming and cosy glow. Tom smiles.

“I’m all ears.” You urge him gently.

“Oh, right…Well, I’m sure that you already know that the first trip to Hogsmede is coming up. I was just…wondering that, perhaps you wanted to go together?”

You blink. Ticklish, your hands tremble and you spur with excitement. Suppressing it, all you do is smile tenderly, “What…do you mean by…together?”

It was not a question he expected, you can tell. His eyes widen if ever so softly, and he releases a dull chuckle to hide the fact that it took him aback, “I seem to meet you everywhere I go anyway.” He says, “So why skip ahead and just go together instead? That is if you have no plans already--”

“I don’t.” You say with a cheeky smile, taking a step back, “And I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know when I see you again. Like you said… We seem to meet everywhere we go, so you won’t have to wait for an answer that long.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! sorry for the update that took forever, lol...though, i must say that there would be no update if it wasn't for that wonderful ost. well, there would've been, but who knows when! anyway, hope you liked this chapter. tried my best to keep tom in character, but since we know so little about him and this story features romance i gotta burn a few bridges. sorry if it's too occ. and if you find any mistakes. it's very late when i'm editing this and i'm dozing off as i'm typing...  
> love you all xx


	4. A lesson in language.

“ _En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie.”_

The trip is long and tedious; puddles lay waste on the road, small rocks sticking to your black robe, its edges already dotted with small patches of mud as are your shoes. The rest of the students face a similar problem – girls yelp and giggle and grasp the hems of their coats and skirts tighter, the few teachers that accompany are quick to discipline them for showing too much leg. The weather is harsh, no sun, just dark grey clouds and a breeze that curls the glossed locks of your hair and pinches your cool cheeks and nose red.

You and Tom walk together, a bit further back, watching the excited hoard of students as they seem in an unruly rush to Hogsmede. You pull your scarf closer, letting the wool scratch your face and tickle your neck. Some girls glance back at the two of you, narrow their eyes at you and look away again; the two of you stand at a distance, enough for all to understand that you are merely two friends enjoying a conversation about the weather. Tom is missing his usual group of friends and you are happier than you are willing to admit – he looks livelier without them, rather than being a simple addition he stands out perfectly as his own person. His focus on you varies – at times he watches closely, mapping your face, the cupid’s bow of your lips and the wink of your lashes…Other’s he is completely immersed in Ruth’s flaring skirt or the teacher’s nagging voice.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, and you almost don’t catch him. Tilting your head softly to the side, you trace his paled face with striking precision; perhaps he notices, since the corner of his lips curls into a knowing smile, “What does it mean?” A spurge of pride heats your chest and you take your next step with a light jump, fighting the grin that is about to pull on your rosy lips. You look away from him, pretending to think, to let the silence stretch, to leave just a pinch of mystery.

“Maurice Scève, a famous French poet once wrote so about his mistress…” You start, “And it is also considered to be one of the most romantic sayings in the world.” At this your gazes lock. A breath catches in the back of your throat as your heart makes a sudden, uncoordinated leap forward. His eyes are enchanting, stunningly accurate in detail and brighter than anything you have yet seen today. It is more than distracting, strangely it makes everything around him blur – the scenery, the chatter, even the strands of his hair…

A whistle blows. Your shoulders jerk and you glance away. Tom smiles. Ruth is yelled at again. Two kids bump your shoulder lightly as they rush forward.

“…I just like the way it’s pronounced…” You mumble, “ _En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie._ In her beauty rests both my death and my life.” You smile shyly, “See, it’s the _ma mort_ …My death, and _ma vie_ …My life. Such profound devotion…”

“Are you well versed in French?”

You are quiet for a moment, “I suppose, yes. My mother… made me learn it when I was younger.”

“What else did she make you learn?”

“Nothing of real interest.” You say, “I was an avid reader, though. She insists it was because she used to read me _La Belle et la Bête.”_ You smile at the memory, “It was my absolute favourite…Do you know of it?”

“I’m afraid I do not.”

“It’s a fairy-tale. About a girl trapped in a castle by a terrible beast. Each night he comes to her as asks her to marry him…And each night she says no, until finally she says yes…” You trail off, “Then he turns into a prince. My mother said it was based on a true story.”

“And all this, in French?”

“Of course.” He narrows his eyes at you, though subtly, you barely notice the change, “It’s in my family, you see. I was supposed to attend Beauxbatons.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You turn away. You fingertips numb from the cold and you curse the leather gloves that you wear. You hook your hands together and bring them to your lips; he watches in silence and wonders what exactly are you thinking _. Nothing of real interest_ , is what you chant in your mind. It is unnerving. You feel like he can see right through you, to the very core of your being and read each and every little snippet of your life, but most of all, the life you want no one to know of. So you smile, like any proper lady should. You feel something dark and icky pool in your stomach. It weighs you down and your shoulders slump lightly. The expression you wear is plastic, but you doubt he can tell.

“It doesn’t matter, really.” You reply, upbeat. “What about you? Do you speak a different tongue?”

He thinks; his eyes shift to the front again into the upcoming contours of the small village. A drop of rain kisses your cheek. Soon more dot the surface of your face. You glance down, see the ripples in muddy puddles and avoid a few by carefully stepping to the right and brushing your shoulder to his. You murmur an apology and don’t keep close. A second whistle pierces the air and it seems to catch Tom off-guard. He blinks owlishly, finally returning his attention back to you.

He leans closer, “Promise not to tell?”

“Mister Riddle and Miss (Lastname)! Do hurry up! And, _respectful distance_ , mind you!”

You are to obey the order, but something about the way he looks at you makes you freeze and ignore it; he doesn’t show any signs of hearing it either. You gulp, your throat itches from the sudden dry-spell and you feel an overwhelming wave of curiosity soak you to the very bone. It shows on your face. You see small versions of familiar doe eyes reflect in his iris. A smile picks at the corner of his lip and you fail to catch any ill intent, even if there was any. _Is it a secret?_ You wonder _, For such a look it must be…_

The rain hits harsher.

“I promise.”

|||

You must take shelter when the scenery becomes a blur, the houses distort and even the whistle of the teachers falls flat and quiet in comparison to the humming of rain. Cold water leaks down your lashes and your hair sticks to your skin. You close your eyes when they start to sting and shudder. A warm touch on leather; someone grabs your hand and blinded you follow quickly. A chirp of a bell and warm dry air caress your cheeks and you are promptly pushed into one of the few shops. Cracking. Clanking. A few barks.

_Pet shop?_

You open your eyes and the warmth leaves you. Tom runs his fingers through his hair and moves forward to the empty counter. You briefly glance back through the small window of the door – it looks like a painting, a mixture of dull grey colours and clear blue. You take off your gloves and shove them into your pockets. You quiver. You are drenched, and he is too you realize, noting the trail of water he leaves in his steps and the one that leaks from your own robe.

The floorboards creak under you, either from your weight or they are simply too rotten to stand anything anymore. A twinge of fear grasps your heart and you stride forward onto the carpet. Fire dances in the stone fireplace, sparkling and glimmering like a small dragon, its light reflecting in glasses and glass trinkets alike. An unusual place to take shelter in, normally you would assume one would run straight to _The Three Broomsticks_ and have a drink of Butterbeer. You shiver, frost glossing over your skin and you move closer to the fireplace as if a moth drawn to its warm flame. Your shoulders jerk once some creature swinging its legs above your head knocks on the ceiling. Letting your hands heat you peak at the various animals lurking in cages – some are proudly displayed by the windows, some are tucked away in the shadows. Perhaps they fear daylight, or perhaps they are too dangerous to see. Tom searches for the owner, and once he is sure he is nowhere near, he turns to you with a grin.

“Do you really want to know?” He asks, already knowing the answer. You nod without second thought, “See, much like you, I could speak it ever since I was little…” He moves further back and it is your cue to follow. You feel less eager than normal to pull away from the pleasant licking flames, but do so anyway, carefully tracing any squeak and jolt if the old floorboards under your feet,  “Except no one taught me.” He stops next to a porcelain glass cage with a small serpent inside – its scales shimmer in the fire light and dot with mellow blue colours of rain. The amber surface is slick; small beady eyes watch your approach curiously and with more hostility than it looks at Tom. Or maybe it is just a trick shadows play. He crouches to it. You refrain from raising a skeptical brow and take a seat next to him, sticking so close that he can feel your shivering. Tom eyes the snake for a moment before turning to you, almost expectantly, like to ask for permission. Unsure, you give a simple nod.

It sounds odd. _Slick_. Even unnerving perhaps. Unlike most languages it has a feeling. It is odd. That is the only way you can describe it in words: odd. Unruly. Unsafe. Uncomfortable, like something in stuck in your head and you cannot, for the life of you, get it out. Perhaps if it wasn’t Tom, speaking so fluently and clearly, you would have been scared out of your wits. But you are not.

 _Odd_. You feel odd. Like you don’t know how to feel or to react. Surprise? That is one way to put it. Your mind skews with warnings and omens and other historical prophesies, melting into his figure as if he had just absorbed everything you knew about the language of snakes and its bad reputation. How does one react? Quiver in fear? Scream and run away? You were not brought up to do either of those things, and also…You didn’t feel like doing those things either.

He stops, all this time he was watching you closely for any shift in your clear expression but you look no different than just hearing someone read off a line in French. Your focus falls from him to the amber snake, a soft gasp escaping your lips and you lean forward just a bit – the snake spins, going in a circle to catch its own tail. The room goes in vertigo when you stare at it for too long, your mind trying to keep up with your eyes, ears, the erratic beating of your heart.

“You said…” You take a pause to catch your breath, “You can speak Parseltongue ever since you were little.” It isn’t really a question, more like a statement, and Tom nods. You pull away from the snake, awe falling into curiosity once more, “ _What else can you do?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait! been caught up with other things and etc...lemme know what ya think! xx  
> thank you for all the reads, kudos and comments xx


	5. Thorns.

Startled you yelp and snap your head to the nearby window that a black crow had, by accident, hit. Katherine, beside you, raises a brow and swiftly continues moving, not sparing a glace; her robe kisses the ground and creates this sort of hissing that echoes in the empty corridor. The two of you are late. Missing Advanced Potions for perhaps ten minutes already, yet neither of you are in any sort of rush. You press the leather tomb closer to your chest, watch as a lone black feather sadly floats down and out your view and how its details are even more striking in such bleak weather.

What an unlucky sign, first thing in the morning too. Your name falls from Katherine’s lips as impatient she snaps her head to you, motioning for you to follow her down the flight of spiralling stairs into the dungeons. You glance at her, then at the window, then back at her again and fall into motion. Your shoulders square as the strange croak of pain the bird made rings in your earlobe. It had been a minute since your last encounter with Tom Riddle alone – two weeks to be exact, - and whilst the sudden revelation that the most beloved boy in school speaks the language of the damned had not fully sunk in then, now it surely has. You feel like you walk on glass each time he catches your attention from across the Library or class. Not that you fear him, more like you fear other people finding out and shunning him for it.

The two of you glide down the stairwell in complete silence. Katherine is not in the best of moods, and if you truly cared perhaps you would’ve bothered asking why, but you prefer this sounds of footsteps and swishing robes and heated breaths so you don’t pry. The temperature drops. It is cold here and you shiver. Damp. The air sticks to your skin. Not dark, but dim, and the warm light of torches bounces off the mossy walls and creates a sort of deep green glow.

As you pass some doors you hear snippets of chatter, but they are diluted, hardly coherent. Finally, Professor Slughorn’s class is within reach and taking a few quick strides you are first to reach the door, first to hook your fingers around the cold metal of the handle and you pull with such force that the door budges and creaks and the students inside seem to stop their idle conversation to eye what is happening. You step through and let Katherine pass; Professor Slughorn turns his head to greet the two of you with a pleased smile, “Ah, Miss (Lastname), Miss Duviar, I trust Professor Hauet didn’t give you trouble?”

Katherine hands the heavy book to the Potions Professor, “Of course not, she was delighted to help.” Your eyes briefly wander around the class: the merged group of Gryffindors and Slytherins stands in a half circle around a table with various potions and pots brewing. You note no distinguished scents despite the fumes fogging up the small windows. A few students stare at you as you and Katherine go stand with your group. One, namely, Tom Riddle, in the very back corner accompanied by his best friends from both sides. Your gazes meet and the faint memory from the Pet Shop sparks in mind; suddenly, the two of you are alone, in the warm glow of the fireplace with creaking floorboards under your feet and an amber snake that goes in circles. The whole room goes in vertigo.

Katherine notes how distracted you are and nudges you softly to the side. You blink, snap away and raise a questioning brow at her. She says nothing, simply looks straight at the cluttered table and the excited Professor beside it. For the better half of the first lesson Slughorn shows and explains different potions you are going to make as the year progresses, warns of their complexity and the consequences should one make them wrong. Finally, he moves to the last cauldron, a small black pot that is the size of both of your palms combined and with an ornate little top on it, preventing any fumes to leak out its cracks. Most of the students, that were bored and quietly chatted amongst themselves, shat up once Slughorn called for their attention by clearing his throat.

“Now then, I believe this potion is one you will all enjoy hearing about…” With a gentle smile he lifts the top off and the room seeps with heavy dazing scents that hit so unexpectedly you have to stand firmer in order not to fall. A rosy hue leaks from the cauldron along with spiralling fumes that melt into the ceiling once they reach it. The Professor, after admiring his handiwork for a heartbeat, turns back to the class and eyes each and every one knowingly, “Can anyone tell me what this harmless little elixir is?”

You take in a deep breath and can practically feel soft petals of flowers touch your fingertips, the ones you grow back home, your favourite kind; if you were to close your eyes you are positive you would see them clear as day, right there, by the entrance to the shed with the gardening tools and empty paint buckets…And then, the library, the soft creaks of newly opened books and the scent of ink on them…Your heart jumps and you snap out of your daze. There is an odd scent mixing in between the two, dominating almost but for the life of you, you can’t figure out who it belongs to. Shyly, your hand raises and Professor Slughorn turns to you.

“Yes, Miss (Lastname)?”

“Is it a…Love potion, perhaps?”

“Correct! Ten points to Slytherin!” He says enthusiastic, “What we have here is a real example of ‘ _Amortentia’_ , the most powerful love potion in the world…Though calling it _love_ is a misgiven in itself. What it creates is merely an illusion, an intense and overpowering infatuation that does nothing…But hurt, in the end.” His pauses, “That’s why we can safely consider it the most dangerous potion in this classroom.” He gently sets the lid back down and the fog fades in a cloud of scented pink smoke. The class takes a collective inhale and smiles sheepishly at one another, “Creating it is strictly illegal.” Slughorn warns, “Should you be caught with it expulsion awaits you.” He moves, “There are many mock love potions, ones that you can get your hands on if you try hard enough, but I discourage you. Though the effects of those potions are hardly as strong and last much shorter, they often lead to poisoning.” Taking the books you and Katherine have brought, he holds them up. Complex titles in gold printed letters glimmer in the dimness of the room, “Most of them can be found here. That is why I will be possessing these books from now on, and be sure that I will not allow you to even peek at them, and if you try to take them on your own I will inform the Headmaster immediately.” He sets them on the table, “Love, death…It is meant to happen naturally. I hope none of you get the idea to make it otherwise…Now then, off to your tables and turn to page fifty-six!”

…

…

…

The day continues to drag and you feel more and more worn out as the sun peaked and started to roll back down. Lunch. You sit closer to the wall and Katherine sits in the front, her back turned to you as she insists on tormenting some poor Ravenclaw girl and your friends eagerly watch the exchange with an occasional snicker. Unimpressed you silently eat, lazily skimming over the _Daily Prophet_. _These Muggles and their war…_ Even the Ministry of Magic is concerned. Finding a particularly interesting interview with the Secretary of Defence, you lean in and absentmindedly stab your fork in the nearly empty plate, always missing the piece of food by mere millimetres.

It is extremely hard to focus as the tormenting from the other side of the table gets louder and you wonder why no teacher steps up; you flick your eyes up to the teacher table and contain a sigh. No one is present, must be a meeting or something along those lines. With a sharp flick of your wrist you turn back to page one and lift your head up, see the approaching horde of Gryffindor’s ready to jump aid.

“ _Katherine_!” You call with a tint of anger in your voice. She halts, whips to you with a look that is almost to ask if you want to join in. Your brows knit together and her smug expression falls, “Leave the mud-blood alone, will you?”  Your eyes fall to the much smaller, paler girl with bright red blotches kissing the skin of her cheeks, “She’s hardly worth your time.”

“Oi! You can’t call her that!” One fires up at you. Your frown deepens.

“I can.” You say flatly, “And I just did.”

Suddenly you have lost your appetite. With a huff you come to stand and try to ignore how everyone seems to follow your every movement, grasp your bag and fling it on your shoulder and dig your nails into the newspaper. The Gryffindor boy, one that is not keen to let you leave this easy, steps up again and is about to open his mouth but you beat him to it, “ _Oh mon Dieu…Je me’n fous!_ ” With anger sparking in your chest you send the deadliest glare you can manageand see him visibly shrink under it, before trotting out the Great Hall.

You had every intention of going straight to the Common Room. Your head has been pounding all day and it has only gotten worse, there’s a sick feeling that pools in your stomach and your fingers have been quivering since this morning, so much so that you accidently dropped more powder into your potion than needed and instead of turning a lavish red it coloured a deep purple. What an unlucky day! Rushed footsteps behind you and you pray to whoever is listening that no one is chasing after you, especially that Gryffindor boy.

A hand lands on your shoulder and spins you to face the stranger easily; you are met with the friendly colours of your house and slowly your gaze travels to meet with a much darker green. Tom doesn’t even break a sweat despite having just jogged to you – once you are angry you walk in wide quick strides that others have a hard time keeping up with. Your anger deflates. There is a strange calmness to him, though you can tell he is anything but calm. The corner of his lip is cranked upwards into, dare you say, proud smirk and the hand that stopped you travels to your face. His finger curls a strand of (colour) hair and hooks it behind your ear.

“Should I have not…followed you?” He asks with a teasing tone noting your flushed expression.

“Do as you please…” You mumble and turn away in fear that he will see the sudden heat that strikes your cheeks and how tight your throat is; perhaps he hears the note of strain in your voice and doesn’t elaborate further, simply joins you on your stroll.

“Your friend… Katherine, is it? Certainly a character.”

“She’s a fool.” You blur, tired. “Starting things like that…publically…my mother would end me.”

“I’m guessing you are from a…conservative family?”

“No, I’m from a proper family of Purebloods. She is too, but…” You shake your head softly, “Her views are much ahead of the time.” You tilt your head to him, “What about you?” Tom considers answering, perhaps he’s weighing the pros and cons because he speaks only after a pleasant moment of silence.

“Half-blood. My father is a great wizard…Mother was a muggle.”

Your lips thin into a line, “Was?” the questions escapes you without much thought and sounds so tender and raw that you scold yourself for even speaking. Tom does not take kind to it, you know he doesn’t by the way his face suddenly stiffens and his eyes glaze over coldly.

“She died during childbirth.” He states simply, though you can tell by that alone that this topic is done. You hum, don’t express your condolences since he obviously doesn’t want you to.

“And your father…What’s his name?”

“Tom.” He cracks a smile, “I was named after him.”

“He must be great.”

“He most likely is.” Tom agrees and again you can tell that this is a topic for another time. You nod. “And yours?”

“What about mine?”

“What’s his name?”

“Percival Antoinn (Lastname). He deals with potions and spices…” You trail off.

“And mother?”

Silence.

“Lauret.” You finally say, though it sounds a bit hollow.

“I suppose, by how you mention her, she is…tough?”

“Not tough. Proper.”

He realizes there and then that families are neither of yours best subjects to chat about, so leaves it be. Your face portrays little emotion, as if you are wandering lost in thought though your eyes bleed with so many memories ideas and stories that you perhaps want to share, but simply can’t. How secretive. He likes it, he knew there was something about your posh accent that he couldn’t shake off and he continues to walk in silence, but with a smile. The two of you are wrapped in secrets like thorns. Walk so close yet appear so distant. Perhaps one day you will open your heart to him. He doubts he will ever do the same, but doesn’t discard the idea completely. He enjoys the mystery for now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! not much happening yet, sorry, next chapter will be ///holy shit/// tho. the french the reader says is something along the lines of 'i don't care', but ofc to everyone else it just sounds like an elaborate insult or some fancy french gibberish lololol  
> thank you all for being patient, for the comments and kudos! till next time <3


	6. [a small note ]

Hello everyone! I know no one likes updates without an actual chapter, so I'll keep it brief.

The truth is, I'm really broke. I'm also starting college soon, and extra cash is something I really need. This is a 'small note', however, and I won't go into any juicy details for that matter alone. The main gist is: if you like what I do and do what I like (uh?), please, if you have any change to spare, click [_**HERE**_](https://ko-fi.com/A7418K3) and leave a coffee. Really, every penny helps. If you don't have any money, I understand, but if you can please spread the word. I really don't like asking for anything in life. I enjoy putting out content and I am beyond happy that people actually read and are happy because of it.

Updates will continue as usual, don't fret. I'll keep on writing no matter what <3


	7. Amortentia

“Oi, Tom…” The boys’ dormitories flooded with sixth years, Tom lagging behind his group of friends that so very insisted on always having him close by even if he was not taking part in conversation. The said boy’s thoughts drift in and out reality; most revolve around you and your hasty exit with barely a mumble of ‘ _I’ll catch you later’_ before you trotted down the empty hallway and disappeared; you skipped all of your remaining classes and he did not catch you at dinner either. To say he is worried would be a lie – he is not. Curiosity is a better dub for this emotion, and so he thinks and thinks on what you might be doing at this hour as he trails whatever scenery is present. The Chavarone kid calls him; Tom is a bit ticked off for being so rudely interrupted admits doing absolutely nothing. As the boys slowly float to their beds, he notes Chavarone stand by his with a goofy smile on his lips. Their eyes meet and the kid snorts, “Have a secret lover you’re not tellin’ us about?”

“What?” Tom spits.

Chavarone points at the dark green sheets, “Look at this, yea? I see a box of chocolates with your name on it.”

~*~

_A lonely cottage stands vacant of any live beings on the outside and seems so set in stone that not even magical might may move it. A tall, luscious and luminous forest with leaves the size of palms and branches as thick as sturdy legs sway to the gentle crisp breeze of northern wind. No town is in near sight, yet far away, if one was to listen closely he could hear the church bells ring from Diu Derar and catch the occasional whiff of baked goods from the one and only bakery in hundreds of miles. The cottage is thick with moss; the stones are glossy and shine like emeralds once sunlight bounces off of them. Wild flowers and orchids grow in pairs and mix and blend into a mass of colours that are hardly distinguishable. The grass nearly reaches ankles, yet it is so lush and green that it wold be a shame to cut it. A wooden shed with paint buckets inside lazily flaps its door open once the wind demands in a harsher tone._

_It is a terribly hot day, one that rains with light and the wind does not dare to whisper. All windows are open, the glass reflects the insides of the house and all its small trinkets to prying eyes, yet frankly there are none in sight. Bees buzz near flowers. From the hose a few drops of water leak down into a messy puddle of mud. A bee falls astray when it’s coated in pollen, slipping inside rather than back into the forest to find its hive. She is met with many dazing scents, ones she can only hope to name and a sight that would remind her of a kitchen if she knew any better. Her attention is drawn to the sickeningly sweet melting chocolate on the side of a cluttered table and she forgets about her task completely and immediately, darting straight into the counter and getting stuck in the sugar. She buzzes and buzzes, but the only two people hardly bat an eyelash._

_Pots brew and emit smoke. It is hard to breath enough already from the blasted heat and the boiling liquids do not help. They fill the room with white fumes that stick to the throat and collect dew on the cheeks. The older of the two – the mother, no doubt, with a knot of black hair on her head – holds a slick wooden spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn as white as her teeth. There is no smile on her face as she tries to catch the gaze of a child, her child, she so profoundly had asked to do the simplest of tasks yet the child has failed time and time again. A soft sob, one that grows in volume quicker than birds chirping in the morning, echoes in the kitchen and pierces the heart of whoever hears it. The child is crying. Big opalescent tears roll down chubby cheeks followed along by hiccups and raspy apologies. The mother doesn’t ease however, only yields the spoon higher in a threatening manner as the child claws at its fingers with delicate yet desperate care. The chair scrapes on the floor and the child straightens his back, just like mother had asked, feeling his bones settle and ache as he is not used to sitting this proper. Yet mother insists. Mother knows best, after all, and whilst Father is away there is little freedom to be had._

_(Name) has a hard time making out her bloody and bruised fingers, clouded by the curtain of tears she can hardly make out anything at all. Emotions seem to mix and match and nothing is comprehensible.  Except fear. Fear of the monsters lurking in the very depths of the forest, under the mattress of her bed and…the one monster that is starting right at her with unreadable (colour) eyes._

~*~

Cold. Finger numbing, brain freezing, breath seizing cold. And why, now of all times, do you recall your childhood of all things?

There is a small section in the dungeons that not many know of: if one walked straight ahead to the very end there is a secret passage way that leads to the baths, both men and women separated of course, and both having a specific password to enter. Mostly Slytherin students visit it, and any other house that dared to venture in this part of the castle would be met with their clothes set on fire and emerald sculptures of mermaids mocking their appearance until they cried. You have seen it happen a couple of times over the years, though as you grew older those rare occasions became so scares that they were nearly non-existent all together. The tiles here are a brilliant polished deep green that seep and glow from the lake water; here, just like in the Common Room, a big window opens up the depths of the Black Lake for girls to see.  How…chilly and wet these tiles are, you realize so only when the white cloth of your socks soaked and your knees started to hurt from kneeling for so long.

At the very back - somewhat a walk from the actual baths filled with bubbles and cheerful laughter and even songs of some more talented girls - are the bathroom stalls and you hide in the very last one. You are unsure for how long have you sat here. Time seemed to either go fast or terribly slow; the toilet faded in and out your vision, your stomach churned and lips pressed tightly into a line. Pain, soaring pain up your throat and you threw up everything you had numerous times, until you had nothing.

Blood. Dark red blood glistering in the deep glow of the bathroom, sticking to the tip of your nose, coated all over your lips and teeth. The iron smell is sickening. The taste is even worse. Your knuckles ache as if they had been beaten again by your mother, as if that memory had caused them such pain that tears sprung in the corners of your eyes. Your head hurts. The shrieking laugher and splashes heard from seemingly so far away appear sharp and only agitate you more.

You have a colourful dictionary of words you would like to use to describe this never-ending day. First the crow, then the potion, then Katherine accidentally hexing your quill in Charms, then Dolly Sue spilling her ink all over your skirt in DADA, then the Great Hall fiasco, lastly you running away from Tom Riddle himself because you just felt so ill you could hardly take it. And the two of you were getting along so lovely, too. What a shame, what a shame… A spike of worry grows in your chest and pinches and pokes you from within. _What is happening to me?_ You wonder, staring at the red dots on the back of your hand. This school year has been nothing but one bad accident after the other. Could this perhaps be early signs of a deadly sickness, or…is someone doing this to you on purpose?

You can hardly focus on any of those thoughts before a new wave of sickness crashes onto you and you spill more mouthfuls of blood. But magically, after that you feel better. So much better in fact that you stop hunching over the toilet, straighten your back, even blink a few times to make sure it’s no illusion. After another moment you pull the lever and your insides go down into the sewers, never to be seen again. Shakily you stand up, your knees wobble and losing balance you lean onto the stall. A bit dizzy. The world jumps too quick at places, but over all you feel much better. More minutes of composition and cleaning and you are free to go.

The mermaids wink at you as you pass them. The girls in the baths don’t bat an eyelash at the sway in your step, merely wave at you as you turn to leave. Before you can make it out, however, a harsh call of your name and a silent yelp echoes; you stop near the exit and tilt your head to the side, whatever happiness you held onto of your quick recovery crumbling once you recognize the hair, the figure, the eyes… Katherine rushes to you with a joyous grin that is completely oblivious to your suffering. Perhaps she simply does not care. She is fully clothed, yet her dark hair drips with warm water and you realize she has just changed.

You give her a weak smile and nod, “Hey…Kat.” She greets you with enthusiasm and the two of you finally leave the humidity. The dungeons are cold and quiet, _fresh_ , you can’t even smell the mould you did this morning. Katherine jitters, talks about one thing or another but you don’t mind it. She looks eager, eager to say something and for a minute you wonder should you pry or not. _Manners_ , you recall, and with another polite smile you cut her off, “-Sorry, but…We’ve been friends for long enough for me to know when you want to spill. So…spill.” Her face lights up with a beautiful smile.

“(Name), I…” She takes in a deep breath, “-did something.” She finishes with a sigh.

“What did you do?”

“Well, Velma and Dolly suggested this plan, they said it is perfect, but…You” Her smile falls, “might think different.”

Your face twists in confusion – you won’t like it? You don’t particularly mind anything Katherine does, sure she is a bully, but for the most part completely harmless. Did she hex someone? Did some forbidden magic in a closet or an abandoned classroom? You hardly care about that and she knows it. So this must be big, something big and bad and it makes your stomach churn again and a twinge of fear spike that you might throw up again. Katherine stops walking; already feeling a bit anxious, you do too. She looks at you with her chocolate irises that seem even darker in the dim dungeon lights. You note a dusty blush bloom on her cheeks.

“Listen, I—“Her voice cuts off as harsh footsteps start to echo in the hallway. The both of you snap your heads to the direction of the noise. For a moment the tension and curiosity is lost as you focus on the left turn from which someone will emerge at any given moment. You glance at Katherine, standing beside you and shivering, but you are sure not from the cold. She looks happy. Ecstatic, even. Her face lights up as the footsteps stop, “Tom!” She exclaims and your heart tumbles to the pit of your stomach.

Had you missed a clue? Have they always been friends, or worse, _lovers_ in secret? Had she always danced behind your back?...You almost want to shake your head at such intrusive and impure thoughts. You and Riddle are nothing but friends, after all, and you should not feel entitled to his attention. But you do. So along with hurt anger mixes and mashes and you frown softly as you watch her, finally gathering the courage to look at him.

Once you do your heart stops. He does not look happy as he looks at Katherine, in fact he looks enraged but only the forest green of his eyes shows it – his face remains stone cold, like a marble statue. A sudden drop in temperature and you are unsure whether the cause is him or your bad health. Katherine seems oblivious to this, she takes a step to him and you hurriedly grasp her sleeve and softly tug her back. She snaps at you, “This! This is what I’ve been trying to tell you!” She grasps your hand, glancing at Tom before her attention falls onto you again, “(Name), we are in lo—“

“Don’t say it.” You are surprised when Tom speaks, no, _spits_ venomously as if Katherine’s statement has been a personal attack on him. His brows knit together and eyes gleam dangerously; Katherine’s smile falls into confusion, “I figured it was the likes of you doing this. Slipping love potions into chocolates.” He explains, his gaze not once breaking with hers, “Pathetic.”

“I…” Katherine starts, “Don’t…understand…”

“Don’t understand what? That your idiotic attempts failed? That I’m not stupid enough to not recognize poisoned sweets when I see them?”

You jerk your hand away from her, “You tried to feed him a mock love potion?” You ask appalled, “Katherine, that can kill him—“

“Not mock.” Tom interrupts. “Amortentia. She put Amortentia.” He takes a step forward, “What did you think would happen? That I would not smell it? Taste it? That you had an unlimited supply of it?” His eyes narrow dangerously; he takes leisure steps, ones that echo and bounce off of the enclosed walls and make Katherine squirm, “To think…That I would ever be interested in someone like you—“

“Well why not?!” Katherine fires up, “How am I worse from the likes of others?” She turns to you, “From the likes of _her_?”

“Don’t even dare to compare yourself to (Name).”

“Just because I don’t have (colour) hair, and squinty (colour) eyes, and a mother that beat me senseless—“

“ENOUGH.”

It happened quickly. One moment Katherine was standing next to you and the next she was thrown to the wall and laid on the floor, unconscious, and not one spell word had escaped either you or Tom. Not even a wand was drawn, just a hand, in a swift motion directed straight at your best friend.

Tom releases a short breath; the dungeons are deadly quiet. You stand frozen, unable to put two and two together, feeling like the puzzle pieces had scattered themselves all over the castle and you can only hope to find them. He approaches you in hast steps, his cold hands cup your cheeks and the space you have been staring into fills with his familiar handsome features, “Are you hurt?” He asks, and if one was desperate enough one could even find a tint of worry in his voice.

“I…” A voiceless sound leaves your lips; your fingers come to wrap around his and you abruptly jerk his hand away from your face, with such immense fear and panic that you hurriedly turn on your heel and fall to check for Katherine’s well-being. Yes, the two of you have your major differences, and yes, you don’t fancy her all that much, but she is the only real friend you have and the horror of losing her too is just too much. Your shaky fingers touch her neck; a slow beat gradually reaches your fingertips and you release a pent up breath. Tom continues to watch you, once you look at him he seems almost alarmed, “What…how…?” Words fail to form.

“She is alive.” He reassures, not sounding all that caring.

“Was…” You rasp, “Was there a possibility she might not be?...” He doesn’t answer your question. He doesn’t have to. His power is enough of an answer for you. “Tom.” He perks up when you call his name, “Just…who are you?”


	8. Tom's confession.

The common room is quiet and warm; the fire lulls and dances, casts strange shadows onto the ground and walls. The opening to the Black Lake gleams with a deep green glow as menacing figures shimmer behind the glass, but only for a second, as if afraid of the public eye. You sink into the plush couch. It reeks of spilled perfume bottles. Staring blankly into the distance you try to put two and two together – what had happened, how it happened, but most of all, why it had happened. Was it really that foolish to think that your best friend would slip love potions into chocolates? You have heard rumours of some girls resorting to such drastic measures, but you never pinned Katherine for the kind. She had always been bold, a bit obsessive perhaps, but never unfair to her friends. There are many snakes in Slytherin – granted, the crest if a silver serpent – but Katherine was one of those who did not believe in ‘all’s fair in love and war’. You suppose this is the hardest pill to swallow. The person you, to an extent, loved, had practically slapped you in the face. And for what? For some silly boy!

…But he is no silly boy, is he? You gulp as your thoughts rush to the person you had been waiting for in this gloomy dark room. Tom Riddle is many things, yet none could be labelled in any way humorous. He is charming, mysterious, a sweet talker when he wants to, and awfully cold when he does not. The way he looks at you makes your heart race. A smile shines on your face once the thought of him slips to mind. You had tried to ignore him for most of your life. After all, many girls have their eyes on him, and you knew if you were to ever show interest you would simply be crushed.

But look at you now. _Look at you now_ …With a small smile you pull his robe closer. It lays on your shoulders weightless, like silk, deep green and familiar. His _Prefect_ badge glimmers in the firelight.

Katherine is alright. The other girls had taken care of her, while Tom, wasting no time, gave you his robe and grasped you by the hand, not letting go until you were safe in the Common Room and warm by the fire. He had run into the boys’ dormitories, promising to return shortly. You count the minutes as you wait.

Faint footsteps draw your attention and you straighten in your seat as you finally see him descend from the staircase in hurried steps. Once he reaches you he seems calmer, more collected – perhaps he feared you had gone to bed, or hid – and with a gradually slowing step he carefully takes a seat next to you, not once breaking eye contact. The forest green iris appears even darker in the shade, pierced by the opium of…adoration? Your heart jumps in your chest when he leans in, his thumb brushing the side of your lip. Flustered you frown, about to ask, but he, with a faint smile, says “Blood.”

That is enough to chill the rapidly heating temperature. You nearly jerk back. With a quick hand you wipe the remains, if there are any left to begin with, with your knuckles. Gulping past the tightness in your throat, you look away in shame.

“I must confess.” You utter.

“…I am listening.” He sounds neither excited, nor intrigued. As if he already knows what you are going to say. And perhaps he does. It would take a fool not to notice how gradually worse your health has gotten, even if you tried to hide it.

You turn to him, “I am very ill.”

“I know.” At least he does not look repulsed; your worst fear is washed down the drain and replaced with tranquillity. He extends his hand and warily, after some moments of examining it, you intertwine your fingers with his. His touch is warm and gentle on your skin. “It is because I made you.”

Your fingers go numb in his hand; the coolness of the Black lake seems to seep past your clothes and into your bones, despite you not even touching the water. Sounds dilute and distort into incoherent buzzing; the only thing clear is his velvety voice and intense gaze that does not leave your face even for a second. You are choked up. Unable to squeeze out even a simple “ _What_?” or a meek protest. His words blow you away…And suddenly you grow completely terrified.

It shows on you, shows in an exaggerated expression an actor would wear, but yours is entirely genuine. This does not disturb or worry him, however. He simply pulls you closer, his other hand landing on your dewy cheek and caressing it with affection. You feel your jaw tremble. The blood in your veins run dry as your heart lunges heavy and full of hurt. You want to pull away. All of this is overwhelming. He. His confession. The uncertainty of the future. His hypnotizing eyes. The looming fear of your health getting worse. The strange way he makes you feel… Conflict starts like a war in your mind. Emotions mix into a complete mess, and if you knew no better you would say it’s all a part of his plan, whatever plan that might be.

Finally, your dry lips part “… _Why_?” is all you manage to rasp. A smile curls on the corners of his lips, his eyes narrow in a playful way as he examines your anxiety ridden expression with the same interest he’d view a crow with a broken wing heaving for help.

“There is something about you…” He starts quietly, “Something about you that calls to me. I don’t know what it is. I tried to understand it, but all I figured out was…” His thumb rubs your cheek, “That you’re the prettiest when you are hurt.”

You melt in cold shivers. Unsure of what to do, of where to look, you close your eyes and try to forget. Forget all that happened up to this moment, but most of all, forget what he said, how he said it, and how, for the first time since you have known him, he sounded like telling the God honest truth. A hot bullet shoots up your head, spreads like poison and spills out your tightly shut eyes in opalescent tears. You hear a soft hum from him, almost like he pities you. There is comfort in this darkness. You would gladly stay here forever, but the image of you acting so wildly unladylike burns more than the… _betrayal_. You take in a deep breath, one that taste sweet from the perfumed room. Your eyes pry open cautiously, and what you find is his blurry face that hadn’t moved an inch.

“You can speak to snakes,” Your lips move on their own, “cast wandless magic… _curse_.” The last part comes out strained. “Who are you, really?”

“That is what I wish to find out. And I want you to help me.” He leans out slightly, “I searched…For my father’s name all over Hogwarts. Every secret this castle has to offer I unveiled, only to find… _nothing_. Then I figured…My mother must have been a wizard, how else…” He falls quiet, “I want you to go with me.” His fingers tighten around your skin, “I want to…be there. With _me_.” And again his touch is tender.

“To where?” You ask, knowing no better.

“Little Hangleton…” He says slowly, “ _My home_.”

You have never heard him say such a word. _Home_. It sounds so foreign coming from him, so out of place, but sincere, _desperate_ almost. A home. A _real_ home. One he has never seen, or, and you suppose this, _had_. And he is asking you to go with him? _You_? Perhaps you are biased towards this; perhaps he knows which buttons to push for you to crumble. You almost forget that he is the sole reason you caught up blood in the morning.

The last bit of common sense chimes in, “Was it really Katherine that left those chocolates?” You ask, “Or… did you make her?”

“Would the truth change your final decision?”

A breathless “No” leaves your lips.

He smiles, “Then it is better for you to keep believing that she is guilty. Will you go with me?” He quickly changes subject.

Tear tracks dry on your red cheeks. You manage you squeeze out a polite smile, twitch your fingers under his hand, look into his eyes with unwavering certainty, “I will tell you in the morning…That is, if I wake up at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: sorry for the wait…been shifting from narrative to narrative, lastly decided to stick with this one…hope you like it! also, PSA: tom riddle is a liar and if you even think anything he says is genuine (regarding affection) you are a fool and deserve all the angst in the world (i also fall into this category lmao)


	9. Train ride.

**_S p r I n g b r e a k._ **

The train station is restless; couples and children run around in a frantic haze of smoke and screams, giggles, enthusiastic chatter. Some passengers bump into you and mumble hiss like apologies under their breaths without even sparing you a glance as they rush to their departing trains. Fumes stick to your skin. The sun rains down in harsh rays and it is abnormally humid and hot for Britain. Rainy weather and clouds are to be expected, but this… the baby blue of the sky is nearly blinding. The chaotic shouting and the near deafening sound of honks is disorienting. With your terrible health it is all almost too much. However you prevail and tilt your head upwards, quick eyes in search of the platform. Your suitcase and ticket are safely guarded in your grip. Finally, a _miracle_! You spot the far away number 8 and hurry to it, counting the minutes until your departure.

A line had already formed to your train and so you set down your things and wait patiently for your turn. Your hair sticks to the side of your oily cheek. Blasted weather! With a silent huff you fix your hair and try not to blush under the heat. Once your turn arrives you smile graciously at the young ticket checker, “Good day, miss.” He greets you with a sunny smile, his mood ten times brighter once a grumpy patron passed him, “May I see your credentials?”

“Certainly.” You are quick to rummage through your case and pull out a small passport. He regards it, and then you, reluctantly giving it back.

“Have a fantastic trip, (Name).” He wishes and curtsies his black hat. You nod graciously, “If I were to offer you my help in carryi—“

“There is no need for that.” A quiet, though stormy, voice cuts in and your heart skips a beat once Tom’s pale figure comes into view behind the boy. “She is with me.” He states simply, leaving no room to argue. The boy backs down and allows Tom to take your bag and your hand as he helps you into the train.

_In a breath you are transported home, where trees are tall and their scent is dizzying. Bees buzz freely and butterflies dot surface of flowers; heaven like scenery all around you. And you are a small child again and so terrified of the woman with a permanent frown on her face holding a wooden spoon high above her head in a threatening manner that,  you realise,  if you were to make a wrong move pain would soon follow._

_“No self-respecting lady holds hands publically.” Your mothers voice echoes loud and clear, “Are you of noble birth or are you a_ peasant _?”_

And despite being told from an early age what is right and what is wrong, you chose to ignore your instincts and block out her voice. Instead you relish in the way your hand fits perfectly in his; how safe and warm it is; how pleasantly it tingles and makes your whole body feel as if on a gentle cotton cloud. Tom does not let go of your hand till you reach the compartment.

It is small and old. The red seats are dulled, but still comfortable. Tom puts away your things – his is already tugged away somewhere – and as you sit you get a better look at him. He is missing his regular robes; without them he appears leaner and paler, yet still undeniably handsome. His clothes seem worn, but tailored, they are not new but you know he has been keeping them in the best shape he possibly could. He takes a seat next to you when the train jerks into motion. Soon rumbling spreads and vibrates your bones as the scenery behind the window moves into a colourful blur.

“It’s nostalgic, isn’t it?” He breaks the silence in a bored tone. Curiously, you tilt your head away from the window, “Reminds me of the first time we met.”

“The train to Hogwarts…” You agree, “Seems so long ago...” You add.

“But I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you are different.” He says and you can barely make out a smile on his lips. He must have expected you to relish at the idea, however your face falls.

“Do you hate me, Tom?” You ask. He thinks; his eyes trail off from your face to the outside view.

“In a way.” He admits, his gaze locking your own. “I hate what you do to me.” He says slowly, his fingers coming to graze the side of your forehead to push away some silky strands of (colour) hair, “I hate how reckless I’ve become…And how honest, too.” At this you blush; your cheeks tingle pleasantly as the warmth of his fingers linger. He pulls away, either to compose himself or to mind your personal space, though you doubt your comfort and wellbeing is on his mind. Alas, it feels as if a heavy weight is lifted off of your chest. He does not hate you. He has no malicious intent regarding you. It makes you smile, however your smile is small and a bit mellow.

“Tom…” You start slowly, curiously, thinking back on all that has happened in the past year, “Do you ever miss home?”

He regards you with a strange look, “I grew up in an orphanage.” A shiver rolls down your spine at his blank, emotionless tone, “There is nothing to miss.”

“Oh…” You murmur meekly, “I…I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He states, “How could you?”

You figure only professors know this. Come to think of it, it suddenly makes sense why he stays for Christmas and spring break in the castle, and seems so displeased once summer rolls around. You used to believe that it is because he despises the heat. Tom always seemed happier when it was cold and raining, or so you noticed. But now you understand and feel sad for him, though you try not to show it, knowing that he would not appreciate your worry. He just shared such a delicate secret with you. You cannot ruin this moment with your unruly affection.

“I don’t miss my home, either.” You say gently.

“It’s because of your mother, isn’t it?” He inquires; again, his tone betrays only polite curiosity, as if he already knows the answer to his question. You nod.

“She is a…difficult woman.” You start, “But I do not blame her. I was a difficult child…I also don’t blame my father for not being there to stop her.” You glance out the window – fields of green are coated in a happy yellow colour; lacy bright wildflowers, “See he is the only alchemist in our town. We live quite far from it, and the trips back are long and tedious… We live in the woods in a small cottage surrounded by flowers and moss and fireflies at night…”

“Sounds idyllic.”

“It is merely a pretty font.”

The conversation lulls to a stop as both of you are lost in your own separate thoughts, until… “I’d like to visit it sometime.” He says, making your heart skip in delight. He smiles, “Meet your mother. Do the same thing she did to you.”

“You mean the same thing you do to me?”

You wonder why you do not hate him. Not feel a burning desire to escape, or even feel better. Perhaps it all starts and ends in that small cottage in the woods. Perhaps, this pain he inflicts, others inflict, _you_ inflict upon yourself with those memories you repeat in your mind, are home. Perhaps you are simply used to fear and anguish and it would make you feel terrified if he were to act a different way. This pain is comforting, nothing new. Changes are a terribly scary thing, and you despise them. More than that, you could not hate him. Your heart betrays you. The way it beats for him and him only. The night he told you that he wants you to join him on his little quest…You were hurt and shocked but that all melted away the next morning. You had thought long and hard. You had weighted the possibilities and decided that his side was the only place for you to be, despite the circumstances, despite the pain. Yes, you do not hate him, quite the opposite in fact.

With a smile you turn away, not waiting for his answer, if there even was one, “What shall we do in Little Hangleton?”

“Find out the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: y'all are so nice SERIOUSLY! thank you for all the comments and kudos and reads...thank you for sticking by the hellish update scheduale... cant thank y'all enough..hope you like this...btw this is in no way a healthy relationship!!!however this is a fanfic and i can romanticize whatever i damn please. <3 <3 <3 lemme know what u think in those comments! they seriously motivate me to write <3


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